


Learning

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His oddly flat, cold face turns wintry. "You'd sacrifice the safety of this mission, Dr. Weir?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning

It's not until her third meeting, fraught with frustration and achingly over-long, that she understands how spoiled she's been. Give her foreign despots and murderous third-world thugs dressed up in the trappings of leadership and she know how to handle herself; give her military men who sneer the moment they see her slender frame, assuming she'll wilt as easily as the other unfortunate women in their lives, and she knows what face to wear.

It's Jack O'Neill's fault, really. He's too genial, too comfortable with civilians -- with women -- giving him orders, and her guard is left weakened by his sunny charm and disarming wit.

Marshall Sumner is neither charming nor witty nor easy under the command of a woman who bears no rank, wears no scars of wars hard fought. "Colonel, you come highly recommended by General O'Neill himself. But if you do not cease this frankly antagonistic behavior, I'm going to make sure you and your men are so hampered you'll be _begging_ for reassignment."

If only he'd looked, he'd see more scars than the most wizened of soldiers. Just not on flesh.

He blinks, surprised at the first truly aggressive move she's made. "My orders -- "

"I don't care about your orders," she snaps. Never leave the high ground once you have it; he's off guard and she needs to keep him that way. " _My_ orders come directly from the IOA and where I, and my scientists, are irreplaceable, _you_ are just a uniform. Any uniform will do."

His oddly flat, cold face turns wintry. "You'd sacrifice the safety of this mission, Dr. Weir?"

Crossing her arms below her breasts, she allows herself to smirk just a little. Men hate it when she does that. "I will do nothing of the kind, Colonel Sumner. The safety of this expedition is paramount in my plans."

She doesn't let loose the torrent of words that build up inside her -- _something you don't seem to value as much as I do, with your pig-headed, misogynistic, better-than-you attitude about every decision I make, even the ones you think are_ good _decisions_ \-- instead letting her frosty yet regal attitude do it for her.

It's worked before. She has a feeling it'll work again. His problem isn't that she's a woman, or even that she's a civilian. His problem is that he doesn't _know_ her, and doesn't have the trappings of rank to force his trust.

That's easily fixable, at least. After a few quick, short phone calls that leave her thrumming with satisfaction, Elizabeth leaves a final message and then returns to the odd, boxed in quarters that have become her home, these last six months. It's cold here as well, frost darkening the corners so when she lights her precious candles, they gleam soft and welcoming.

She's expecting his knock. "Marshall," she greets him, ushering him into her tiny closet-like room. There's not enough room for them both to stand, so she takes the lone seat and gestures for him to sit on her neatly made up bed.

Sumner looks around, interest on his weather-worn features, that slowly, gradually softens, a glacier melting under a summer's sun. "Dr. Weir. I thought you were... attached."

"Oh, I am," she says with a sharp smile. Just because that might be in their future is no reason to encourage an even stronger air of paternalism. He's even her usual type, which probably explains some of why their heads have been butting. Capable men who know their own minds have always been a thrill for her. "And that isn't what you're here for."

"It's not?"

"On the contrary. If you're going to remain head of the military part of this expedition, I believe it's time I gave you the same interview I give everybody else." She hands him a glass of wine, posed so that the light catches her face at her best angles. She isn't fond of using her 'wiles', as her mother called them, nor her physical shape and features, but a good diplomat knows to use whatever works. Ethics are for those who don't have thousands of children hanging in the balance of her work.

Or even the harmony of no more than three hundred people who may die before they ever find the wonders she's so sure wait beyond a shimmering blue circle.

"An interview? Very well." His acquiescence is too easy, but Elizabeth suspects her phone calls have done their magic already. The military will do what the IOA tells them, in this specific case, and she is far more important than the men sent to protect her. It's a surprisingly nice arrangement. "And what exactly would you be interviewing. My record -- "

"I don't care about your record, Marshall. I care about you. Now, then. Tell me why you want to be part of this expedition in the first place. I've been made aware that you specifically asked for it."

This time, his look is as appraising as her own, shuttered against the true thoughts hidden within, and appreciative in ways he's never once shown before. No more barely hidden scorn, she thinks with a private smile.

It's a little disappointing that it's her mother's lessons that will win this battle and not her fathers -- but lessons are learning and she'll take what she can get.


End file.
